I’m a 15 year old American girl—made of pure angst, quick vexation, and deeply entrenched embarrassment for my general existence—and I am in France with my family. We’ve traveled to Lourdes, a stunning spot at the bottom of the French Pyrenees. It is home to a holy site, the origin of a spring said to have been brought forth for St. Bernadette by an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Pilgrims from around the world come to bathe in these purportedly healing waters, and now we number among them.
Uncomfortable with the situation, and the unseasonable warmth, I sweatily trudge, an uneasy teenage pilgrim, through the nauseatingly beautiful French sunshine and toward my wet fate. Mentally preparing as best I can.
Over the course of two hours, we move through the penitent queue, listening to the rhythmic chanting of the Hail Mary prayer, recited in Latin. But even those soothing tones do little to calm my overall nerves. Despite being raised Catholic, this is an inherently foreign experience to me.
When I finally enter the bathing antechamber, I’m forced to face what I have been dreading—I am supposed to take my clothes off. Despite the fact that I would prefer to melt into the floor, through sheer force of will I comply and wrap myself in the proffered sheet-like towel, as instructed. I sigh to myself, hoping the worst is over.
However, as soon as I step in, my breaths become short, clipped gasps and my body freezes in both the literal and metaphoric sense. Two kindly, and surprisingly sturdy, nuns support my arms as I somehow lower my sheet-adorned self into the tub of mountain water and then shakily emerge like a less-than-majestic Arctic Ariel.
The ritual complete, though not quickly enough for my taste, I shiver and shimmy in the sopping sheet toward my neatly folded clothes. My hurried attempt at dressing myself, an activity you’d assume I would have mastered at this point in life, is comical at best. I hit a snag because, as a tomboyish yet developing young woman, I have a sports bra to contend with. Over-the-head sports bras are a constricting challenge at the best of times. When you are damp, they are damn near impossible. Add a solid case of full-body shivers, and top it off with the overwhelming desire to be done with the whole experience, and the result is a teen on the verge of desperate tears.
As I visibly struggle with my convoluted undergarment, a savior appears, unbidden, in the form of a small British nun—a woman with a visage and accent reminiscent of a devout and habit-clad Mrs. Doubtfire. My savior’s warm eyes, crinkled at the corners, come into view just as I am about to give up. She deftly untwists the straps at my back while soothingly whispering, “There you go, tuck yer buzzies in deah.” Mortified, yet grateful beyond words, I tuck in the aforementioned buzzies, nod my thanks, ditch the sheet, and retrieve the rest of my blissfully warm clothes. Donning them quickly, I head to find my family and tell them about the unexpected nature of my religious experience.
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